


Session Deleted

by Calliopinot



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Clowns, Daddy Kink, Drug Use, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Practice Kissing, Prostitution, Sexual Content, Spanking, Work In Progress, good time to point out i was cajoled into writing most of these
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-01-22 16:32:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21305138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calliopinot/pseuds/Calliopinot
Summary: A home for all my false starts and works in progressComments GREATLY appreciated, since with a lot of these I've become uninspired or aimless... uwu
Relationships: Charles Foster Offdensen/Toki Wartooth, Leonard "Rockso" Rockstein/Toki Wartooth, Skwisgaar Skwigelf/Toki Wartooth
Kudos: 24





	1. Age of Innocence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Earlyklok. The days between Toki's first audition and releasing the Dethalbum, as told in pieces of Toki's life between the ages of 16 and 21 (one chapter per year).

**Sixteen**

They cursed their luck. Twelve hours in the sweltering, un-air-conditioned warehouse yielded a prospect, but one their arrogant, newly minted lead guitarist shut down unconditionally. Pickles had agreed on behalf of the band, to avoid further argument, that if _this_ audition session didn't work out, like the four that preceded, then fine, they'd forge on with one guitar. But he knew—they all knew—metal bands needed two. _He_ needed a partner on rhythm.

Skwisgaar never thought about anyone but himself. Skwisgaar never thought.

Which is why Pickles, in particular, and Nathan and Murderface were confused. Skwisgaar had gone outside for a smoke, he said, shake off the day's frustration. But he came back in with the kid. The one he'd just dismissed. The one they all thought had been amazing, could be Dethklok's new rhythm guitarist. The one he'd just dismissed.

"Uhh… Skwisgare?"

"Yuh."

"What's that guy still doing here? I thought you beat him?"

Skwisgaar shrugged, nonchalance replacing the excitement with which he'd intercepted the kid, in private, just moments ago. "Ja, buts you knows, I ams given to, eh, flights of fancies."

There was no way he was going to admit to them what he had to the boy from Norway. That the kid pushed him, made him better, this random kid off the street. He certainly wasn't going to admit to anyone, himself included, that playing hadn't _felt_ like that since the first time he held a guitar. That the kid awakened something in him, something like passion, but harder, more intense.

"Anyways, he ams a kid. I cans molds him afters mines own mimage. Ams prefect sitsguation." He took a drag off his dying cigarette. "Calls de manager."

Nobody was going to begrudge Skwisgaar his mercurial nature. They had a rhythm guitarist, after months of searching, and a deadline fast approaching.

The manager's car was as black and spotless as ever. The boys took turns wondering where he got the money to keep it so clean, since they had yet to earn him any; or, as they'd often suspected in their more intoxicated moments, if he'd just hired an entire fleet of immaculate town cars to ferry him around, discarding one the moment it got so much as a flat tire.

They waited for him outside. The falling sun provided a modicum of relief from the south Florida heat—and celebratory Coronas were best consumed out of doors, anyway.

Charles Offdensen cleared his throat the moment he saw them. Their new member couldn't have been drinking age. Could barely have been _of _age.

"Is this him?" By way of introduction.

Toki smiled up at the man's frowning face. "Ja, I'ms—"

"Dis ams Toki. He's ams our's new rhythm guitarist." Skwisgaar moved in front of the boy, subconsciously, yet deliberately.

Charles glanced from the scruffy kid to his apparent protector and back.

"Ah, thank you, Skwisgaar. Toki, is it? How old are you?"

Toki drew back his shoulders and puffed out his chest. "I's ams eighteens, sir."

Nathan and Murderface and Pickles could barely stifle a laugh. They hadn't even advised him to lie. This kid was going to fit in just fine.

* * *

Skwisgaar peered at him. The buzz and the booze wore off on the ride to Charles's office. Jostling around in the back of a cargo van shook the Swede's resolve. Had he made the right choice? _Should_ they be a one-guitar band?

Toki caught him looking more often than once, of course, but Skwisgaar found he didn't care. He wasn't going to be embarrassed. The kid was his, now.

What the fuck did he just get himself into.

"How old ams you, reallies?"

"Uhh…"

Toki had learned the magic number from a friend a few cities ago. The friend who showed him how to earn a few extra bucks in the winter, when tourists weren't exactly crowding the town raining cash down on street musicians. If anyone asks, that friend had said, tell 'em you're 18.

"Ok, we can settle this later when you go home and get your ID. For now I'm putting down your date of birth as January 1, 1978. I've got to fax this paperwork to the label by five Pacific."

"Uhhhh…"

Charles peered over his glasses at the now fidgeting youth. The only other band member who had the patience to sit through all this contract bullshit was Skwisgaar, and even he was having difficulty staying awake. But Toki's edginess had piqued his interest as well.

"You sees… I don'ts gots a eye dee."

Charles shot Skwisgaar a reprobating look.

"Okay, a green card? Visa? Birth certificate? Baptismal record?!" Toki shook his head at every suggestion, twisting his silly cap in his hands.

"And… um… I don'ts reallies gots a 'home' eit'er."

The manager rubbed his eyes, as though doing so would help him see the situation more clearly, and groped for the intercom switch on his phone.

"Call Nathan, William, and Pickles back up, please."

He sat back in his chair and folded his fingers together.

"Well, congratulations, Skwisgaar. It seems you've adopted a homeless undocumented minor."

* * *

The effects were immediate and obnoxious.

The only person happy about the situation in the slightest was Toki. For the first time in years, he would have reliable shelter, regular meals, warm water to bathe in.

And company! The women and men—usually men—who drifted in and out of his life on the streets didn't make him feel less alone. They were never looking out for him. Here, in Jacksonville, he'd wandered into a group of companions invested in his wellbeing. They had to be! Because they needed him! He had a skill they truly needed! How delightfully novel.

But to the other men he could now call roommates and bandmates, the addition was only slightly less welcome than a canker sore.

Toki's perpetual cheeriness was baffling to the three who'd grown up spoiled by American luxuries. The concept of gratefulness for basic accommodations, shitty microwave dinners, awe at the ratty old bunny-eared television – it was all foreign to them, as he was. The fourth simply ignored the new inconvenience he'd brought upon the group. Until the group forced his attention.

Encountering the bright, shining, ever-eager face of Toki Wartooth in the living room every morning wore thin within a week. Murderface complained the kid's saccharine energy was giving him diabetes. Pickles tried to be more accommodating, but there was only so much pot you could smoke to tolerate an endless cycle through 23 channels of static and kid's cartoons. Nathan, ever the diplomat, waited until Skwisgaar ducked out for his regular Saturday night sexcapades before unilaterally relocating Toki's meager belongings into a corner of the lead guitarist's bedroom.

Few things kill the mood, as it turned out, like a scruffy punk kid curled up at the foot of one's bed, like a faithful dog waiting for his master's return. Not because Skwisgaar was angry, which he was, but because his dates couldn't help but coo and coddle the beaten down boy without a penny to his name.

"Dis sitsguastions ams unstenable!"

Skwisgaar's objections over breakfast each morning were ignored. He wasn't exactly paying rent. Not like this was a democracy, anyway. Nathan's band; Nathan's rules.

"You picked the kid, you live with him." Nathan smirked at the special shade of red Skwisgaar turned when he was inexpressibly furious.

"…Dra åt helvete!"

Toki was deaf to the complaints. He didn't mind the change in accommodations, was grateful for them, in fact. So what if he had to sleep on the floor? It was a step down from the couch but a step up from the sidewalk, no worse than the barns or cellars of his youth. At least this one was carpeted.

And it was convenient. In the frequent moments he found himself alone, he could secretly help himself to Skwisgaar's beautiful, pristine Gibson Explorer, with no prying eyes to judge or accuse. So _this _was what it felt like to play a _real_ guitar. Varnished wood gliding under his fingers as they swept across cool frets firmly attached to the fretboard. Pickups that actually picked up his picking, no matter where he plucked the strings. Harmonics that rang out in honeyed tones, literally music to his ear.

Toki could usually get away with an hour or more of clandestine practice, when the 21-and-over crowd was out at the bars. But some nights, he would get so swept up in the sound of his own potential that he'd have to scramble to set things right without getting caught.

Tonight, he'd have no such luck.

~~~

_MIDDLE MIDDLE MIDDLE_

~~~ 

"Goes makes out wit you pillow!"

Toki joined in on the laughter at Murderface's expense. It hadn't taken him long to understand that was an easy way to inure himself to the crew, whether he understood the joke or not.

After the rest of the band cleared the room, Toki knew it was safe for question time.

"So, Skwisgaar. Um. What's ams 'makes outs,' anyways?"

The Swede blinked at him. Of all the 16-year-old castaways, they had to inherit the repressed weirdo. The backwoods religious kid who didn't know his dick from a kielbasa. Skwisgaar was practically having orgies by his age—or sleeping next to them, at any rate.

"Uh, huhhh. Tokis. It ams whats de Americans calls, you knoes, de kissings." He felt like an idiot making kissy noises at the kid, but pantomime had worked for a great many other awkward explanations. "Dat kissings. Befores you's goings to, eugh, do ot'er stuffs, pysicallies, wit' peoples, you knows?"

He _had _to know. Come on, Toki. He wasn't about to hump the air.

The boy's eyes drifted over the contortions on his senior's face before a lightbulb went off.

"Oh! Ja, I knows dat. I didn’ts does de kissings when I does dat stuff wit' peoples! Nots allowsed."

Skwisgaar's heart dropped through his stomach, straight to his knees. He wanted to ask Toki exactly what he meant by that but was afraid of getting precisely the answer he expected. Instead, he hoped it was just an accident of language, like when he had to explain to the kid that, no, they were not all going out to adopt kittens after last week's show.

A different inquiry was due, to get his mind off the seamier bits of Toki's past he willfully ignored.

"You means to tells me you amment's dones no kissings before?"

Toki's gaze ghosted over his face again and up to the ceiling fan, as though the rotating blades would help him count – all the way up to zero.

"Noes… I nots done dat."

"Gods damnit!" Skwisgaar grasped the kid firmly by the shoulder and spun him around, ignoring all protests until the door to their room was closed and locked behind them.

Why he insisted on teaching this particular lesson by demonstration he'd sort out later, when he could hear his thoughts over the rush of blood pounding behind his ears. As it was, a mix of hubris and genuine curiosity propelled him forward, toward Toki, until no distance remained between their lips. He held them together, perfectly still, until he felt the boy's initial panic settle into something more like confused shock, then pulled back to arm's length.

Toki's eyes were wide open. "Okay." He stared straight ahead, at Skwisgaar's chest, in heart-pounding silence, unblinking, before he chanced to meet Skwisgaar's gaze.

"Ams dat it?"

The Swede let out an exasperated chuckle.

"Ja, Tokis, dat ams its." Hands that were itching for a fretboard instead found their way to the young man's soft cheeks. Skwisgaar tried to ignore the delicate peach fuzz they felt there. "Buts, dat ams nots all."

First kiss officially out of the way—and with it, a pressure he still willfully ignored feeling—Skwisgaar leaned in again. This time, Toki met his advance. Skwisgaar had to swallow a guffaw; the kid actually stood up on his tippy toes. His hands were clammy on Skwisgaar's bare shoulders. Gross, but endearing.

He knew the lesson would have to end soon. There were all manner of angels and devils dancing on his shoulders, warning him about morality and jail time and the integrity of the band. But he had a responsibility to instruct his prodigy in all things, and God almighty, was the kid a fast learner.

A tug to the soft hair at base of his skull was the signal to shut things down. Skwisgaar pulled away with a gasp, and Toki fell forward into Skwisgaar's chest, lips still pursed, not at all expecting such a sudden end to their intimate moment. He scrambled back, hitting the door, withdrawing his hands to balled fists at his side.

"Sorry!"

"No, I'ms sorries!"

"I didn'ts know if-"

"No, no, it's okej, just-"

"Okei, just-"

"Okej!"

Skwisgaar could feel the tips of his ears burning, his sinuses clearing, the pit of his stomach joining his heart down around his knees, as he raised his right hand in the most awkward gesture he could possibly have come up with in this moment. Toki demurred, but took his outstretched hand, shaking it vigorously before yanking his own away once again.

"Uh. Good. Very good. You dids goods. Now. Uh. Goes gets ready for beds."

It was 9:34 pm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole thing started as kissing practice trope practice and made a clown out of ol' Callie.


	2. Skills of an Artist, Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An immediate continuation of [the Ketchup Artist AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14739636/chapters/34141652)

The boy evidently contained multitudes, too.

An audible sigh pulled him out of his trance, along with wiry arms wrapped around his waist. 

"I tells to you alls de answers to you's questions," Toki breathed into the nape of his neck, "ifs you kiss me right now."

Skwisgaar was more intrigued now than he'd ever been in the short hour he knew this young man. Toki Wartooth was an oddball, an artist of sorts, probably not a serial killer, quite possibly a hooker, and thoroughly fascinating. He spun him in his arms, pressed him into the doodle-covered wall, and smashed their lips together. 

Toki responded with a gasp, and a shove. Skwisgaar looked affronted. _What the fuck does this guy want, exactly? _Toki ran a hand over his own wet mop, checking the drawings for damage.

_Oh_.

"Sorries, I--" Couldn't finish the apology, his mouth under attack. The kid was impatient, after all. But soft lips belied his aggression, softer than his environment suggested they should be, and sweet, too, a little vinegary, kind of like tomato paste-- 

Skwisgaar couldn't contain a grin as his tongue ran over them, couldn't contain a moan as Toki's tongue joined his. Before he knew it, the backs of his legs were hitting the futon, his shirt was flying off, and his pants were coming down. It was only then that he remembered, for all his prowess in the arena, this was not his turf. The kid was on his knees before Skwisgaar had a chance to object.

"Whoa." 

Toki peered up at him from between his legs, that cherubic, perplexed expression still on his face, even as he stroked his guest to attention. "Yous good?"

"Uhh... ja."

Skwisgaar's body was responding on autopilot, his mind distracted. From this angle he saw them, the hashmarks of scars and angry welts that crisscrossed the young man's back. Looking up, he saw them again, leaping out from the paintings, all over the walls.

He wondered how much of that was intentional.

Skwisgaar gripped the hair at the base of Toki's skull, probably harder than he needed to, but he was overcome by something he wouldn't understand until much later. He wrenched the boy's scowling mouth away from the work it had begun below his waist and pulled it upwards, connecting it with his, peppering the perpetually confused face with anxious kisses. 

"You don'ts likes it?" The trepidation and shame in his voice made Skwisgaar dizzy. He liked it. Of course he liked it. He just didn't want it anymore, or yet, or like this.

He pulled Toki into his lap, wordlessly, in response, held him there by his hips and buried his face between in his pectorals, just breathing. He wanted desperately to run his hands over the scars but had no way of knowing how the kid would react. Maybe, one day.

Toki looked down at the blond waves that tickled his sternum, jaw agape. This was far from how he expected his afternoon to proceed. Part of him was a little annoyed. Getting off with a sexy, mysterious stranger was a thing of fantasy, and here he was about to live it out. And then...this. But part of him, a part he'd squelched over years of hard knocks, doing whatever he needed to do to survive, was just fine with this turn of events. A small gesture of--not affection, exactly, but not sex, either. _Intimacy. _

"You's kinda weird guy, huh?"

Skwisgaar drew his face away from the warmth of Toki's chest. He sneered, but there was no malice in it.

"I's nots de one what's plays wit' my foods in public!" 

Toki chuckled, climbing off his lap, the marks on full view yet again. Skwisgaar didn't know whether he just wasn't self-conscious about them or he was showing them off. Either way, he wished, for now, the kid would put a shirt on. 

"Uhh... lets me gets dat photos, ja?"

Skwisgaar had all but forgotten the ruse they'd shared to wind up here, a printed photo of Toki's ketchup artwork the ostensible reason for Skwisgaar to follow him home. 

The polite thing to do when faced with another person's computer screen is to look anywhere else. But the background on Toki's was absurd--a Lisa Frank nightmare of Technicolor rainbows and decapitated unicorns. Something he'd drawn, to be sure. And there were only three folders, large icon: ART, PORN, TABS.

Toki was aware of the prying eyes over his shoulder. He smirked to himself as he made a show of hovering the mouse first over the tabs, then the art, then the porn. A glance over his shoulder confirmed his suspicion; Skwisgaar wasn't even trying to hide his curiosity. 

"Ams kinda rude to gawk at another man's pornos, yknow." Toki said it in a pitch much lower than his normal lilt. He kept his eyes trained on his guest and double-clicked the folder before Skwisgaar could respond, immensely pleased with the reaction.

A shocked flush that crossed Skwisgaar's face, as he took in a page full of videos starring the young man who sat before him. They all looked homemade, but surprisingly high quality. Some were solo, but when he had a partner, their faces were blurred. 

"So you sees. I don'ts really likes when my's mimage gets around." He shrugged. "Wivout gettins paid." 

"Was you gonna tape me too?" Skwisgaar blurted it out before he could consider how rude it sounded. Toki rolled his eyes.

"Please. Dese ams all consentins peoples. De movies ams, eh, kinds of a tenchilality. Dey pays me for porns, not de sexes." A devious smirk crossed Toki's features. "And I gets dere siganature on dese consent forms-" he indicated a stack of papers tucked under the printer- "so I also gots dere identity in case dey tries to sells me out to my school. Ams a good system, I t'inks."

The shocked flush extended down Skwisgaar's exposed torso, down his arms and abdomen, and beyond. 

"Looks like you t'inks so too." 

Toki knee-walked back to the spot on the floor between Skwisgaar's legs, grabbed his thighs and spread them wide, and dove in. 

~~MORE TK SOOORRRRRYYY~~


	3. Midnight Cowboy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prostitute AU. I... have no excuse.

Skwisgaar was popular. Long hair, almost like a lady's. Enough to get a hand-hold of, anyway. Slim build, fine body hair, not too much muscle mass. You couldn't mistake him for a woman up close - and certainly not naked - but something about his less masculine qualities kept him in steady business with the local clientele.

One of his regulars, a cigarette break cheap-and-dirty, signaled him from across the street. God, he wish he wouldn't do that. Cops didn't make a habit of patrolling these streets, but subtlety was still preferred in such exploits.

Skwisgaar ran his tongue over his upper teeth as he made his way to the alley. Not too fuzzy, not that it mattered for the task. A winsome smile could sometimes earn a tip.

He let himself be led to their usual spot, away from the back door, behind the dumpster. Skwisgaar fought against the urge to sneer at the cliché, every time.

"I only got seven minutes left so, yknow, make it quick."

Skwisgaar fought against the urge to roll his eyes, every time. It's not like he told this big hulking pig how to pour shitty watered down cocktails. But he got to his knees and got to work nonetheless.

A skilled tradesman like Skwisgaar Skwigelf could let his mind wander while he engaged his clients. Today it drifted, as it did every day, to the makeshift bank account hidden under his mattress. If that fucking clown raised his prices again he'd need to either up his own rates or cut back - a flashback from the last withdrawal immediately nipped that train of thought in the bud. He could go back to eating every other day. Or maybe he'd just have to dip into his savings... even if that meant, again, putting off-

_*THUMP*_

Skwisgaar nearly choked at the sound issuing from inside the dumpster. Would cops stoop so low? Just as panic began to creep up his spine-

"Hrrrrrnnnnnggghhh!"

Job well done.

He got to his feet, warily eying the dumpster while he waited for his client to adjust himself. The man fished a handful of singles out of his apron pocket. Skwisgaar snatched them up, eagerly counting. He was ready to get the hell out of here.

But there was a problem.

"What's de fuck- _seven_ dollars?"

"Yeah well. Seven minutes. Seven dollars."

"Dats ams nots how it works! Is de t'ing dat cost de money, nots de time! Ten dollars! You know it!"

A shadow crossed the big man's face in the split second before Skwisgaar remembered how utterly disposable he was.

"I suggest you take what I give you and get the fuck out of here before I call the cops."

A giant palm pressed flat into the whore's chest, shoved him with considerable force into the stinking metal. Another *thump* from inside the trash bin reverberated along with the ringing in Skwisgaar's skull.

"Well... Fines! I's... calls de health deparkaments on you's fuckins raccoon problems!"

His John huffed away, shaking his head in confusion and disgust.

Skwisgaar wondered why it always ended like this.

He waited until he was very much alone to let out the sigh that would help collect his resolve, then shakily got to his feet. A brief inventory confirmed nothing too badly damaged. And what was a few more bruises for a few more bucks, anyway...

"Ams yous okay?"

Skwisgaar leapt forward, away from the dumpster that was the source of the voice. Peering warily over his shoulder, he saw a silly blue cap peeking out from under the lid.

"What's de fuck?"

The lid inched open, revealing a mop of brown hair, filthy forehead, and the most arrestingly innocent crystal blue eyes Skwisgaar had ever seen. Eyes that drank in the strung-out prostitute's disheveled appearance, his creased skin and pallid complexion, his own sunken, bloodshot pair that spoke of a life hard lived.

Skwisgaar was rarely self conscious, but in that moment, he felt utterly, shockingly exposed. To some random kid rooting around in garbage, no less.

"Uh... I ams fine... Wait, what's de fuck you doins in dere? You spyins on me? Fuckins pervert?"

The boy pushed the lid up higher, presented a half-eaten chicken leg.

Skwisgaar's heart broke clean in two, before he remembered his own circumstance. A plan quickly formed in his head, albeit one informed by a hunger of his own.

"Come on. Gets out of there."

Chicken held between his teeth for safe keeping, the kid swiftly hoisted himself up and out of the dumpster. Skwisgaar fought not to wrinkle his nose at the waft of putrid air that followed his dismount.

"Ams you okay?" The trash gremlin repeated his inquiry from a moment ago, moderately more concerned now that he could see this man's slight frame and sickly visage.

"Waits a minute--where you ams from?"

"Norway. You?"

"Dat explains de weird cap." Skwisgaar went on ignoring the kid's questions, held his nose as he peered into his face and shamelessly scanned his body from weird cap to toe.

"Toirns around."

The kid bent an eyebrow at him, but complied.

Sigh. He was cute, utterly green. Full of potential to be a gold mine and Skwisgaar's ruin. Siiiiiigh-

"What's you's deal? Where you lives?"

The kid shrugged: Nowhere. Everywhere. Right here.

"Okays, looks. I beens where you ams. I gots a floor you can sleeps on. Ja? Betters dan a bus stop or fuckins garbage cans, ja? Leaves it or takes it."

The boy just stared at him, gnawing on gristle and moving on to the marrow. Skwisgaar was about to repeat his offer, only once, maybe try some broken Norwegian, when the kid shrugged again, tossed the bone over his shoulder, and bent to pull a homespun guitar case out from beneath the dumpster.

Full of potential to be Skwisgaar's ruin.

* * *

A floor to sleep on was generous in description, not in offer. The only pieces of parquet not littered with detritus or drug paraphernalia were cracked and warped from one burst pipe or another. Skwisgaar's slumlord rarely made house calls to fix up this particular tenement.

Still, the kid was impressed. His wide eyes scanned the yellow stained ceiling - a ceiling nonetheless - and ramshackle assortment of furniture. It was cold in here, but not as bad as pavement in the night.

He didn't know what to do with himself, what he was allowed to do, so he stood just inside the doorway, clutching his guitar, while Skwisgaar disappeared further into the apartment.

"What's dey calls you anyways?" A holler from another room.

"Uhm. Toki. Toki Wartooth."

"Fuckins Norskys."

Toki Wartooth didn't know if he was supposed to respond to that, or how.

Skwisgaar reemerged in an oversized hoodie and leggings that left nothing to the imagination, midway through tying his hair into a messy bun. He plopped down on the lumpy futon, folding his legs under him and tucking his hands into the kangaroo pocket of his sweatshirt, and looked up at the guest still frozen in the front doorway.

"Well, since you's still up, grabs a couple beers outs de fridge, eh? I'm Skwisgaar, by de ways."

Toki's eyes landed on what passed for the kitchen - a few square feet of peeling laminate, perpetually broken cook top, leaky faucet, and a surprisingly decent sized refrigerator. The light was busted, like almost everything else in this apartment, but the inside was chilly and fresh, if sparsely populated. He set his guitar down, pulled a pair of Natty Lights off their plastic yokes, and picked his way back over to the couch.

Skwisgaar patted the spot next to him. Not that there were many options. Toki sat a respectable distance from his new flatmate, distance the man quickly eliminated with a turn of his hips.

"Don'ts be shy." Skwisgaar popped the tabs on both cans, took a long swig of his own. "We's gonna gets to know each ovver real well."

Toki didn't have an explanation for the shudder that quaked through his torso. He was shorter than his host by a head and a half but had the advantage of muscle and sobriety. Any attack could be fended off easily.

A pair of spindly fingers seized his chin, and he froze.

"Why you's so norvis?" Skwisgaar frowned. He'd offered this total stranger a place to stay, a beer, and soon, though the kid didn't know it, a job. The least he could do was loosen up a bit.

Toki swallowed hard, though his throat was dry. Skwisgaar's face was so close to his, too close. He pulled the can of beer to his lips reflexively, hoping it would serve as a buffer between him and whatever Skwisgaar had in mind. But Skwisgaar simply waited for him to finish drinking, let out an embarrassed little burp, and pulled his face in for a kiss.

The crunch of aluminum hit Skwisgaar's ears a split second before his forearm was seized in a vise grip. But he didn't let up, just gently worked his lips, coaxing Toki's open, relaxing them. He fought not to smirk at the cool channel of air that tickled his stubble, a deep breath finally released.

Toki's eyes took a moment to open after they parted. The way he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth made Skwisgaar's heart skip a beat. _Rule #1_, he reminded himself.

"You ever done dat befores?" Skwisgaar's hand was still on Toki's face, gentle now, fingers hooked behind an ear, thumb stroking a cheek. 

Toki was too shocked for bravado. He shook his head, "No," switching to a nod when Skwisgaar inquired if he liked it. His host let out a low chuckle. It reminded Toki of geese in the winter.

"Goods. I knows abouts a lotta t'ings you's gonna likes." His smile was sinister, but Toki wouldn't know it until later. Much later.

Too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It gets pretty devastating from here. If the working title didn't tip you off.


	4. Skills of an Artist, Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toki gets an offer he can't, but probably should, refuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Parts 1-3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14739636/chapters/34075559#workskin)   
[Part 4](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21305138/chapters/50736473#workskin)

Streaks of gold and blue replaced the black and red, over time. He didn't notice, at first. Not for a while, in fact. Toki didn't explicitly ask to draw him, never requested he sit for a portrait. But they spent days together, formless stretches of time that lasted an eternity and were over in the blink of an eye.

Streaks of gold and blue replaced the black and red. Warm yellow tones echoed sheaths of silk that enveloped the artist in floral headiness every morning. Sharp angles that had always existed in jagged black scars became rounder, whiter, more sculptural. Bloody skies faded into a natural azure.

Toki's art was only valuable to his sponsors so long as the artist suffered. In these new works they saw contentment, positivity, _happiness_. They withdrew, by and by, perhaps in hopes the pain would return. They did not anticipate that pangs of hunger and threats of eviction were familiar to him, nor did they understand that these minor inconveniences were worth, to him, the joy that this unexpected partner brought into his life.

They would part infrequently, too frequently for Skwisgaar's taste. He was a vagabond in this town, anyway, now a de facto resident of Toki's cozy hovel, so he had nowhere else to be but here. But Toki would leave for class, for grifting, and for work.

Skwisgaar made a lot of decisions when he chose to throw in his lot with the weird ketchup kid. One was not to ask questions. His mind often drifted back to that first night, to that bulk order of condoms in every size and sensitivity under the bed. To Toki's unwillingness to make noise, to get himself off, unless encouraged, take no action unless directed.

His mind would often drift when Toki left for work.

* * *

Toki reached the front door of the grand Spanish villa at a full sprint. He'd built in time for a detour to campus; his faculty advisor had taken particular interest in his recent work, and she wanted to give some notes. What should have been a quick handoff of scribbles turned into half an hour of gouache and brushstrokes. Timeliness was an important part of their unwritten contract, and he would pay dearly for keeping his client waiting.

"Sorries I'm late, daddy." Toki bustled into the house in a rush, shouting his way down the long foyer and up the stairs.

Charles Foster Offdensen stood at the landing between floors, sipping brandy in a burgundy robe, looking for all the world utterly unfazed by the delay.

"You'll make up for it." He turned to follow the young man up the remaining half-flight. "And do speak properly around me."

Concentrating on proper conjugation took his mind off the spanking, at least. Toki always thought it was weird, changing into this shirt and tie and sweater and shorts, only to take it all off within five minutes, piece by piece. At the moment, the tie was all that remained, along with knee-high socks and loafers that cramped Toki's feet. He wouldn't dare complain.

"Why are you being punished?"

Toki thought out the sentence before responding.

"Because I was late."

"And why is it important to be on time?"

"Because my time ams – is – no more valuable than anyone else's."

"Good."

One last slap to a cherry red cheek, and Charles stood from the ornate chair he used for this particular activity, pulling Toki upright by his tie. He led him, gently, to the bed, enjoying the tiny squirm of pain as Toki sat down.

Charles shucked his robe without fanfare. Nothing he did was for Toki's titillation, anyway, though he appreciated the surreptitious head-to-toe glance Toki always did of his well-kept physique.

"Are you prepared?"

Toki bit his lip. He was, an hour ago…

"Uhh…"

Charles merely smiled.

"That's ok. This just means I get to watch you get ready again."

Toki's entire body blushed. He was shy about almost nothing – he wouldn't be in this profession if he were – but handling himself brought forth a deep shame from the recesses of his youth. This, Charles knew. And _loved_.

He watched Toki work himself open with the quality lube he graciously provided, correcting every time he tried to avert his eyes, relishing in the squirm caused equally by embarrassment and enjoyment.

"Good boy. I think that's enough."

Toki tried not to show his relief.

Charles used his body cleanly and efficiently. Some of Toki's clients sought a proxy for passion. Others excused their time with him as a fleeting fantasy of love. But Charles, for all the games he played to stoke his arousal, always fucked with a detachment, as though the actual act were simply a part of his normal daily exercise.

A soft grunt signaled his orgasm. He pulled out, carefully, and sat back with a contented sigh onto the spanking chair. Toki's eyes didn't leave him for a second.

"Now. Finish yourself for me."

He maintained eye contact, even as his composure waned, even as his mind drifted away from the man with whom he'd just been intimate and to the one with whom he actually shared intimacy. Streaks of gold and blue filled his mind and hastened his end.

"Good boy. Very good." Charles dragged a finger through the ejaculate pooled on Toki's stomach. Circled it softly around the young man's parted lips before dipping in. Toki sucked it, obediently, holding his eye, holding the finger in his mouth, until Charles released his jaw. A tender kiss upon his forehead was the only form of affection Charles would allow himself.

There were rules.

This was once the part Toki looked forward to, the validation. But today just felt perfunctory, thanks he appreciated but none that warmed his heart. He erased the frown from his brow before Charles pulled away.

"You may use the shower if you like."

Toki reemerged in his street clothes. Charles tried not to smile at the telltale paint splotches that seemed to mar his entire wardrobe. There were rules.

"Your allowance is on the table."

Charles refused at the outset to be videotaped. This arrangement was different, anyway. Regular. Keeping up the charade was probably unnecessary for their protection, but caution – and habit, and a slight hint of thrill – dictated his actions nonetheless.

Toki found his payment in the usual spot, but something was wrong. He looked up at Charles, who smirked, nodded, gave him permission to count – it's not rude. Toki carefully unsealed the fat envelope and tipped out the contents: a full stack of brand new hundred dollar bills. Five more loose ones floated into his stunned grasp, icing on an improbable cake. He looked up at Charles again. Clearly there was some mistake. 

"I have a large commission in mind for you. That's just your down payment. You will receive a regular salary, and work hours will never conflict with your education. But the project will require you to relocate... Here."

Toki was, for the moment, speechless. This was the offer he'd been waiting for, his ticket out of poverty and obscurity and into the world of professional art. He could leave that shitty little apartment in the dust and live in the lap of luxury, here, with the fancy people. It was a dream. So why did it feel like a nightmare?

"Perhaps it goes without saying, but I'll say it anyway. A condition of your employment is foregoing all other, ah, clients. Artistic and... otherwise."

That was it. The shitty little apartment had something in it he couldn’t let go of so easily. But Skwisgaar wasn't a client; he was a muse, and a lover. Would it count? Would Charles allow him to keep going whatever this thing was? Did he even have to disclose it? The lump sum he held in his hand alone was more than enough to pay for his apartment and utilities for a year. He could front the money to keep the place, keep a roof over Skwisgaar's head, keep him safe and dry, keep him—

"Okei. Ja," Toki blurted out before he gave himself a chance to second guess. "Ja!"

This would be a good thing for all involved. He just knew it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have come to the realisation that this is the third separate time I've made Toki a prostitute. 
> 
> Anyway, I don't really know where it goes from here? Toki hides the arrangement from both Skwisgaar and Charles. Both of them feel betrayed in some way. Skwisgaar can't help but feel like a kept man, a side piece, and grows to resent it. Will Toki choose love or professional success? Is either one a guarantee? 
> 
> At some point, Skwisgaar finds a balled up piece of paper with a smeared number on it, in the jacket he wore to Toki's place that first time. It's the number of the guys he was supposed to audition for (Dethklok, obviously). On a whim, he reaches out. Yeah, they're still looking for a guitarist. Two, actually. Will Skwisgaar join up? Will he present Toki with the option - or ultimatum - to join, too? 
> 
> Hell if I know 🤗


	5. Flamingo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toki takes advantage of Rockso, Rockso takes advantage of Toki, and it all comes to a head at the circus of deth.

It was he happiest he'd ever been. It was a happy thing, by its very nature. The colors, the silly noises, the tomfoolery.

Sure, some people were afraid of clowns. They're creepy, some people told him. There's a reason why they make movies about killer clowns from outer space, evil clowns who hang out in storm drains and eat children. It fits, some people said. John Wayne Gacy was a clown.

But his clown friend was _different_. He was a _Rock 'n' Roll_ clown. They were rock 'n' roll _stars_. It made sense! It was _metal._ Couldn't they see that?

No. No, they couldn't. At every turn, they shunned the clown. It was the frontman who'd brought him into their house in the first place, and yet they still shunned him. Had him beaten, tortured, left in the cold to die or get arrested, they didn't fucking care. He had his revenge, not that they would ever know. Not that he would remember.

Toki invited him back, swore him off, invited him back again. They accepted his presence as an inevitability, in the end. It didn't bother them much that he was an avowed kiddie diddler. He was the only one who was out looking for Toki, when he disappeared. When they ignored it, left it to other men and mechanics while they partied away their pain and emptiness. They knew that. He knew that. Distasteful as he was, he'd forged a bond with Toki, and they let it be.

Toki, eventually, could not.

They'd quickly developed a routine of celebrating all the milestones. One day back. One week. Lucky 13. They'd have to plan something special for six hundred sixty-six days. At the three month mark since Toki had returned home and whole, he suggested they all take clowning lessons. What could possibly be more fun than dressing up in big floppy shoes and rainbow suspenders and face paint?

"Anything else. I'm begging you, man." Nathan Explosion was seconds away from dropping to his knees.

Toki showed off the makeup kit. Similar to their corpse paint, save for obscenely bright colors. His lip trembled for a fleeting second before Nathan remembered the new unspoken rule: _Cherish And Treasure Toki Wartooth, No Matter The Cost_.

Nathan wondered offhand how long that rule would be enforced, as he tried on his third pair of garish polyester pants, seeking a set that would actually balloon out from his lately overly voluminous backside. Three other bandmates grumbled their disapprovals, too, albeit quietly. No one wanted to spoil Toki's fun. No one could bear to spoil Toki's fun. And when they looked up, and saw Toki's genuine smile – painted over by the exaggerated red kidney bean shape – they had no desire to spoil Toki's fun.

"It's c-c-c-clownin' time, boys!"

Dr. Rockso, The Rock 'n' Roll Clown, stood before the group of them in all his low-cut unitard glory. Nobody wanted to spoil Toki's fun, but they did each individually want to slit this fucking clown up the middle.

Toki was designated Rockso's Special Helper for the day. Anything to elevate him to a level of importance, however minor, that he never would have received before The Thing That Happened. Even if the role really only meant digging through the clown's satchel to pick out and blow up balloons (and disregard other balloon-shaped things).

While Toki was distracted, Rockso fixed his sights on the four grumbly band members.

"Now, you boys know what the first step in clowning is, don'tcha?"

They looked at each other. Knew exactly where this was going.

"CO-CAINE!"

They looked at each other. Shrugged. Nobody was especially keen on getting high with the clown, but an altered mental state could make the day more fun. Tolerable, at least.

Under the guiding hand of the Rock 'n' Roll Clown, Nathan and Murderface engaged in an increasingly volatile unicycle chicken fight. Skwisgaar became hell bent on learning how to precisely recreate a Gibson Explorer in balloon form. And Pickles discovered a latent talent for juggling empty beer bottles. They were all pleasantly surprised, each in their own way, that Dr. Rockso had successfully taught them… anything.

Toki was pleasantly surprised to find his friends genuinely enjoying themselves. It had been a while.

* * *

"Now. You gonna p-p-p-pay Dr. Rockso, or what?"

Dr. Rockso, the Rock N Roll Clown, was not the type to give away his services for free. Toki rolled his eyes, but this was the deal.

Rockso had been a regular visitor over the past few weeks, since Toki proposed – and the rest of the band miraculously agreed – to put on an actual, factual Dethcircus. Murderface and Skwisgaar abandoned face paint and goofy shoes in favor of taming wild animals – tigers and wolves, in particular. Toki had objected vehemently to a tiger-on-wolf battle royale, so the duo settled for trying to teach the yard wolves how to herd the big cats. Riding a motorcycle upside down in a cage was a badass enough proposition for Nathan; the act was clinched as soon as he learned it was called "Globe of Death." And Pickles' perpetual intoxication lent perfectly to clowning, so a clown he would remain.

Pickles would also be the indirect financier of the whole shebang, though he didn't know it. Dr. Rockso was not the type to give away his services for free.

Toki ushered the clown into his room and handed over a baggie.

"Mmm, that's right. Gimme that ch-ch-chedda."

Rockso picked a couple of tablets at random, dumped them onto Toki's craft table and got to work crushing them. Toki drowned out the snorting and hacking with a selection of instrumental EDM, cranked to 11. Locked the door. Unbuttoned his pants.

Toki didn't see anything wrong with the arrangement, per se. Providing the once wayward clown with gainful employment was a public service. So what if he got some fringe benefits.

"Fucks… ja dat's… jaaaaa…"

Rockso was high out of his mind. He always made the offer, and Toki always accepted. A blow job was a blow job – and Rockso's were actually better than most. Toki could pretend it was s…someone else. It didn't matter.

Rockso took his load like a champ, chased it with a handful of pills. Then stumbled to the door and was gone.

Toki laid back on his bed, content, conflicted, tapping the near-empty prescription bottle against his bare thigh.

* * *

Pickles didn't notice much. Between his perpetually intoxicated state and general malaise, he paid little attention to the little things.

((Pickles notices his stash is getting lighter which is the first sign that something is awry, Toki spirals as they get closer and closer to the circus which they're putting on *for Toki*, like, HE CAN'T WEAR NONE OF THIS! style, so they start to resent that they're doing all this and he's too strung out to notice. So the circus turns into an *intervention*, like Cirque du Soleil style, where they kind of tell Toki the story of why they care about him (thru...lion tricks and motorcycle deth cages), and Toki's like, Oof, I gotta break it off with that toxic fucking clown. ))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So........ this is one of the giveaway fics I promised last year, for metalliocalypse on Tumblr. She proposed one of the most challenging things I've ever tried to write, plot wise - Rockso x Toki, where Rockso is using Toki for drugs and Toki is so desperate for attention that he goes along with it. Until ultimately he realises Rockso is garbage. 
> 
> I really wanted to explore their dynamic, especially after Doomstar, since Rockso is kind of the unsung hero of Doomstar. But I can't figure out what to do or how to do it. It's... anyway. Please enjoy what's here.


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